


Buccaneer Brock's Pirate Booty

by WhatEvenAmI



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, Gen, Inspired By Tumblr, Lingerie, Pirates, Ridiculous, Urban Legends, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The STRIKE team is stationed in an abandoned mini-golf course for an undercover op. </p><p>HYDRA's extensive security can't prevent local teenagers from hanging lingerie on the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buccaneer Brock's Pirate Booty

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I think it's a good idea to write these things?
> 
> (Idea came from [this](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/141373725566/libertinem-lauralot89-katzedecimal).)

Someone's hung a thong off the Soldier's hook again.

"Goddamn kids," Rollins mutters.

Last night there were two questionably large bras. The night before that, he was _covered_ in assorted lingerie. One morning they found a garter belt clumsily strapped beneath the blue overcoat Pierce insisted on designing himself. It doesn't make sense that Pierce had to have the Soldier in a hand-designed blue coat for an op in a tacky abandoned mini-golf course, but then, Rumlow's still dubious about Pierce's insistence that they have to run the op out of a place called Pirate's Cove.

And then there's the fact that they've been outwitted by these fucking kids night after night. Apparently HYDRA security training, while sufficient to keep government organizations out of their underground operations, apparently doesn't cover 'how to prevent drunk teenagers from sneaking around the base camp'.

This always happens. Brock has no idea what Pierce wants with this town or what HYDRA affiliation can possibly be maintained by setting up a base here. He's not allowed to ask. All he knows is that every so often this town plans to refurbish the golf course, or to raze the property and build over it. And every time, something foils the plan. Not enough money. Dead city planners. Things happen.

And every once in a while, they're sent here to conduct research, make individual phone calls—which they may not discuss with each other once they've hung up—and ascertain that the Pirate's Cove base remains secure. And every time, their 'statue' gets defaced whenever he's stationed outside.

His account is no help, either. According to him, the teenagers wear masks when they decorate him. He's not allowed to follow the culprits. He's not allowed to move from his post as a statue at all. He has one job: to stand sentry while the others are asleep. If anyone gets too close to the cave over what used to be hole eleven _,_ the Soldier is to intercept them, quietly and discreetly, and make sure they disappear like pirate treasure.

The Soldier has been specially outfitted by Pierce himself, in a deep blue overcoat and matching blue hat. The garments are high-quality and incongruous with the kitschy plastic parrots and fake palm trees, but the Secretary insisted on having it done. Brock doesn't let himself imagine the implications. It's weird enough looking at the Soldier dressed all in blue and standing tall against the rocky cave backdrop. There's something eerie about that image, almost resemblant of some iconic figure from Brock's childhood. Not that Brock had any iconic figures but Captain America, something Jack still won't let him live down. 

"You get to work," Brock shakes his head, "I'll go check in with the Soldier."

"Goddamn kids," Rollins mutters again as he heads back into the cave. "Couldn't be another government infiltration. Couldn't be an armed assassin. Had to be these goddamn  _kids_."

*

"Night disturbances, Soldier?" Brock detaches the thong from the hook attached in place of the asset's metal hand.

"Aye, Captain," the Soldier reports flatly, hand to his head in an enthusiastic salute. Someone's got to stop letting him watch TV during long missions; somehow, when he was told he was to impersonate a pirate, he decided that meant he had to talk like one, too. "Nothing worth bringing the wrath of the law upon us. Only the young scallywags."

"Any idea how they keep getting in?" Brock resists the urge to roll his eyes.

" _Arr,_ the knaves be quick as a sea squall, and creep upon ye just as sneaky," the Soldier scowls fiercely, "It'll be the hempen halter for them if I get me hands on 'em."

This was not what Brock envisioned when he was assigned as a handler to the Winter Soldier. "No one's getting put in the—the hempen halter. Just stand out here and make sure no one finds our base. As long as they don't get too close, you leave them alone, you just keep being a statue. If they do get too close, that's when you deal with them. Quietly!"

"Aye, I remember. They cause us any trouble and I send them to Davy Jones' Locker, for dead men tell no tales."

"...Yeah. What you said." Brock shakes his head, shoving the thong in his pocket and wondering what the hell his life has become. "Someone else can take the watch, Soldier, come on inside."

"Batten the hatches, matey," the Soldier points to the graying sky, "We'll be caught in a squall soon enough."

Thank God. Maybe those kids won't sneak in tonight if it's raining and Brock can sleep easier for a night without worrying that their whole operation will be blown by drunk partiers. 

If it doesn't rain, though, then tonight he's going out on the town, if you can call the dilapidated and outdated tourist trap a _town_. He needs to scope out the area, see if they're raising any suspicion. He's already been disrespected for his efforts to keep the Cove clean, as evidenced by a rude note spray-painted onto the Soldier last week. Luckily, his coat is waterproof and easily cleaned. Brock doesn't like to think of how Pierce might have reacted if his special design had been ruined.

There really is something weird about that design, Brock thinks, and about Pierce's interest in the Soldier in general. But he's stationed in a themed mini-golf course and nothing makes sense, so Brock follows the advice that works best in HYDRA: he drinks away his concerns, and says nothing.

*

No one in the town seems to be talking about the golf course. Brock makes sure to do a bit of recon every few days if they're undercover long-term. There was that one time in New York that the Soldier just started wandering off. He didn't raise any suspicions, luckily, but it gave them all a scare and that mission was aborted so they could get the Soldier back and have him wiped. And it's always a good idea to feel out the area, make sure they're not likely to get crashed.

Well, also, there have to be booze and coffee runs. Brock, in halfhearted tribute to the whole pirate thing, buys a handle of Captain Morgan, and wanders around for a bit, sipping. It's a failing tourist town, and half the tacky, garish signs are missing letters and plastic icons. However, one thing does appear to be open and functional; it's a warehouse-style building with flashing lights spilling out through the open door. An arcade. He hasn't actually been in one since he was a teenager practicing the shooting games.

Can't hurt, Brock thinks, heading inside. It's mostly a handful of kids with a few derelicts here and there; Brock sways a little, pretending he's more drunk than he actually is, and the few eyes that had been on him return to their screens.

Better not to play at target practice or anything like it; he's just too good, and he doesn't want to attract an audience. He settles on the racing game, swigging for luck before he settles into the chair. Drinking and driving, he thinks, great mix, huh?

It's possible his drunk act isn't entirely an act. Oh well. He'll share his rum with the others when he gets back. After three months crammed in a cave with a pirate-talking Soldier, they probably all need it.

Brock drops a few quarters into the console and starts to play, not really caring if he wins. He's a few rounds in when he hears it. "We going up to the Cove tonight or what?"

"I dunno, anyone got anything to drink? Or anything? I'm fucking broke, I've got nothing."

"I could text my cousin..."

Brock glances over at the kids; there's four of them, all about sixteen or so.

"Your cousin's the one who's been putting panties and shit on that creepy-ass statue?"

"I dunno, him and some of his friends, I think. When Kaitlyn dumped me I decked him out with some of her bras, though. She was pissed as fuck..."

Revenge bra-hanging. So the kid's an asshole, although Brock can't say he wouldn't have done the same at sixteen.

"Who's still cleaning that place, anyway? Like, who takes that shit off him?"

"All right, look, I'll tell you, I don't go anywhere near that thing. There's something wrong with it. Like, I don't think anyone's _really_ taking care of that place, you know? So..."

There's a moment of quiet as they all digest that. Brock's little pixelated racecar crashes and explodes on the side of the track.

"Alyssa says it's in a different place whenever she's there."

 _Dammit, Soldier. You know you're not supposed to move. What, are you_ trying _to get them to notice you? I mean, I'd totally mess with them too, but still._

"Bullshit, she's just, you know how she is. Just gets all freaked out like that. She's always super wasted anyway."

"I dunno, man. It's like its eyes _follow_ me." The redhead has stopped playing mini-basketball, turning to the rest of the group for full storytelling effect. "I mean it. I've, like,  _seen_ its eyes move."

"That's just 'cause you're high off your ass."

"Hey, has that thing always been there? I would swear..."

"Nah, man, I grew up in this town. That thing has been there all my life, and let me tell you a fucking story..."

Brock sighs in relief is a boy in a gray hoodie launches into some bullshit story about a dead pirate and a curse. _Congratulations, Soldier. You're an urban legend everywhere you go._

All the same, he thinks, carefully getting up from his game, maybe he better call back to DC and have them move the timetable forward.

He waits for the kids outside and follows them at a distance, hoping to figure out how they're getting into the course. It's a waste of time; they all head off in the opposite direction of Pirate's Cove; seems they decided it's not worth going if they can't get any booze.

When Brock gets back, it's late. He sneaks into the park through the side entrance, giving a little signal to the security cam positioned in the mast of a shipwreck so his team will know it's him. Winter's waiting by the cave, standing perfectly still as always. 

He's also draped in—is that?—

Brock sighs and rolls his eyes. There's no lingerie this time. No, the Winter Soldier has been TP'd, and there's a tampon tied onto the tip of his hook.

"Avast ye, Captain," the Soldier says sadly, barely moving his lips, "Look what the bilge rats have done to me."

Brock offers him some rum in consolation and heads for the cave to phone in that request. The sooner they cast off from this pirate-themed hell, the better.

*

Back in his and Jack's curtained-off 'bedroom', Brock carefully opens the prop pirate chest in the corner and sifts around beneath the fake gold coins. He comes up with a handful of garments, all the panties and bras he's rescued off Winter. With everyone else soundly asleep and Jack at the other end of the cave making calls, he can at least take them out for a quick look.

He hasn't tried anything on, not daring to do so in such close quarters. He's only recently been designated Commander, and he can't risk the respect he's started to accrue with his team. And anyway, it'd probably be wise to wash the lingerie before he tries it on. Fuck if he knows where it's been—is it possible to catch something from a thong he picked up at a golf course? Because _that'd_ be real fucking hard to explain to Jack.

He combs his fingers slowly through the coins lest they rattle and wake someone. His hand catches on a tangle of straps and he comes up with the garter belt. For a moment he hesitates; surely it'd be all right if he tried this on. He can wear it  _over_ his underpants, and he can get it on and off in a matter of seconds.

Or at least he thinks he can. It turns out putting on a garter belt is a lot more complicated than he'd thought. He struggles with it, swearing quietly in the dark, and he's about ready to just say fuck it and stuff the think back into the treasure chest when he sees, out of the corner of his eye, the shadowy figure lurking in the curtain-framed doorway. He just about has a heart attack, and then, after, he nearly dies from embarrassment. If this gets out—can he bribe them with those fucking fake coins to keep their mouth shut?

But it's just the asset, standing in the doorway awaiting his orders for the night. Brock can see the confusion playing out on his face as he recognizes the garter belt.

"Soldier," Brock says, heart pounding and face flushed red, hands still tangled in the evidence. "This is classified information, understand? Even the rest of the team can't know."

The Soldier nods, and he swears the bastard's fucking smirking. Of all the things the asset can't seem to understand, of course it's _this_ he figures out within seconds. Although most of the time it's hard to tell _what_ he understands, given that he mostly acts like a robot when he's fresh out of cryo. When he's like this, almost human, it's kind of eerie...

The asset breaks the mood with more god-awful pirate talk. "You've got that on the wrong way, landlubber."

That's it, he's not allowed near TV ever again. "Well, no shit. Like you could do it any better?"

"Aye, that I could." And suddenly the Soldier's right  _there,_ standing so very close, and Brock has to tilt his head up to look at him. "I could give ye a hand. _Or_..." he raises his eyebrows, "a hook." And he fucking smiles like he thinks he's so clever.

If Brock were in his right mind he'd say no way. The hell he wants that hook anywhere near his junk. But the asset's still looking down at him with that faint smile, and then he's kneeling  _down_ and Brock can't help but go there, can't help but see that image as fucking  _holy_. 

And, hook or no hook, he arranges the garter belt with apparent expertise. It's a complicated one, all straps and ribbons and lace, but the Soldier's fingers never falter against Brock's thighs, his hips, his belly. He almost groans with pleasure, then abruptly catches himself. He immediately wonders what the hell he's _doing,_ just as the Soldier turns him around to tie a perfect bow right above his ass.

Brock observes his work; he's done pretty damn well, and since Brock has no stockings to attach the straps to, he's crisscrossed them and hooked them onto each other. He's still standing too close, their breath mingling in the shared space between them. His eyes are dark and pensive; Brock often wonders exactly what goes on in that head of his, and now he's tempted to ask.  _What are you thinking about?_

"I be the pirate Buccaneer Blue," the Soldier announces, softly and out of nowhere, making Brock laugh just because it was so unexpected, "But me crew just calls me Buck."

The eerie feeling is back. "And I'm Commander Crossbones?" he asks in a whisper, trying to quell the shivers. He hasn't told anyone else yet, afraid they'd think it's stupid—Jack would  _definitely_ tell him it's stupid—but he always wanted to be a superhero, and superheroes get nicknames. He's been tossing a few around here and there, and before they came to Pirate Hell, Crossbones just seemed to fit  _right._

Or at least it did until he imagined saying it to Jack. But he can tell the asset. He'll be wiped in a few days' time, and then he won't remember any of this. He's just trying it out, really, to see how it sounds.

"Ye be the Captain Jolly Rog—" The Soldier freezes suddenly, staring into the space above Brock's head, his brow knitting.

"What?" He can't be malfunctioning, not now, with Brock all tangled up in a fucking garter belt. He's immediately hit with the realization of how stupid he's been, and just like that, the moment is over. A vague, clouded look comes onto the Soldier's face.

He recovers quickly, reaching down to Brock's thigh and teasingly snapping his garter strap. His eyes still look troubled, though, and Brock knows nothing's going to be happening between them tonight. Not that it ever should have, and from now on, he's going to use his fucking judgment about these things. "Your orders are the same, Soldier. Be a statue, and stop people from finding us. If we're not in danger of being found, you just keep being a statue."

"Aye aye, Captain." The Soldier ducks under the curtain.

Brock fumbles with his straps, his hands so clumsy and unlike the asset's practiced skill. "Hey—Soldier, why do you know how to put one of these things on?"

But the Soldier's already walking away, humming "A Pirate's Life for Me" as he goes.


End file.
